


the sting of your palm on my face (and why i want it again)

by ammunitionist



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, M/M, Pre-Canon, little hints of desperation, therapy sex basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22444087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ammunitionist/pseuds/ammunitionist
Summary: it isn't like will to get angry.it isn't like tom to storm away.it's not quite like either of them to fix it this way.
Relationships: Lance Corporal Schofield/ Lance Corporal Blake, William Schofield/ Thomas Blake
Comments: 6
Kudos: 199





	the sting of your palm on my face (and why i want it again)

Schofield would not consider himself an angry person.

He grew up with sisters, making him gentle, a kind young man with no interest in the dogfights of his fellows. Regarded a bit oddly, perhaps, but Will never much cared what the other boys thought.

That was a long time ago. Will hasn't seen those boys in years.

Now, though.

Anger was fucking _consuming_ him.

Blake was not one of the people you found yourself mad at often. It more than often culminated in vague annoyance, maybe because he was being a bit too loud or a bit too heady. He was young. It was more than fair that Blake would have a loose grasp on social reception-- Will, in his ever-stoic headspace, had never felt the need to do anything but forgive the man his trespasses.

But _JesusfuckingChrist,_ Schofield has never felt more furious.

"Are you _bloody_ serious?!" He practically yells, storming after Blake, crumpled map in hand. "That's our goddamn _commander_! You'll be fucking lucky if he doesn't kill us, let alone write us up!"

Blake doesn’t stop. He doesn't even glance back. Schofield debates breaking into a short sprint to catch him, but he feels like the effort will be ultimately fruitless.

"Stop walking, you god damned moron! HEY!"

Blake seems to have read Schofield's words literally, because he almost immediately breaks into a dead run. You'd think the man saw a ghost, with the way he's sprinting. Will shakes his head and curses before running after him, feet digging hard into the drying muck of the French hills. They're heading almost directly for their fresh water source, Schofield realizes, a river that Blake had no easy way around. He has to stop there. As upset as the boy could be, he wouldn't soak his uniform over it. 

Schofield catches him a few seconds after he stops. Sure enough, he's standing still, facing the water like it's some immaterial wall he's trying to will his way through.

"Blake!" he calls, slightly out of breath and no less infuriated. "Lance fucking Corporal Thomas Blake, do you _seriously_ think--"

"I CAN'T JUST LET THEM _DO_ THAT!"

Schofield is taken aback at the level of vitriol in Tom's voice. He almost feels his own anger start to abide, but somehow- for some reason- it surges back up inside of him with a vengeance.

"It's not your fucking place to let them do things!" Schofield retorts, exasperated and annoyed and just so, so done with this fucking childish tantrum. "They're army command! They know what they're-"

Blake whirls on his heel. Anger burns in his face, the haphazard mask of a soldier swinging aside to reveal the hurt, self-righteous, insolent face of boyhood.

Schofield can't _stand_ it.

"They don't know bloody _shit_! It's not themselves they're throwing into a fucking trap, it's us! They'll never step a foot out of their sheltered little- little palaces, they'll just point at the fucking map and send us off to-"

His arm is moving before he can really process it.

All Schofield feels is fury. What, is Blake just now realizing this? Of course they'll be sent off to die. That's _war._ Men with scraps of metal pinned to their overfed bodies throwing lives at lives and taking a gamble at what'll come of it.

Schofield slaps Blake across the face hard enough that it gives them both pause.

It rings out, maybe only in Schofield's head, loud enough that sharp feedback fills his ears. Blake is reeling, one hand on his afflicted cheek, staring at Schofield in a mixture of shock, hurt, and something unreadable. His whole body has recoiled in surprise.

Schofield doesn't have the facilities to feel bad about it yet. He knows he should, but something about Blake's sheer ignorance just won't let him.

Blake wheels about, hand dropping away from his reddened cheek.

Scho braces for a well-deserved return-to-sender.

He has his eyes squeezed shut, waiting for Blake's palm or fist to rock against his skull, send him tumbling backward into the wet muck around the river. He deserves it. It's what he gets.

Instead, Schofield feels the hard, angry, burning press of lips to his own. It's heat, anger, desire, fury, and it eats Schofield whole without interregnum. He sinks into the hot, wanting, consuming earth and lets it bury him.

Tom is digging at his own collar, furious, thick fingers hooking on the wool fabric and frantically separating the buttons. Will watches him, dumb with shock, his vision sharpened by sudden lust.

"You're fucking insane," he grits out, watching Blake throw his coat over his shoulder, backwards, like it didn't matter at all.

"God, just stop _fucking_ talking."

Schofield lets Blake's stiff fingers tug apart his own coat buttons, inspired by something he couldn't name to do the same to Blake's undershirt. His skin is hot, fucking scorching, slightly damp, and not even close to enough for Will.

Fury and lust writhe in tandem beneath his ribcage, rushing out to his extremities. Schofield reaches out and grabs Blake by the collar, kisses him like it's air, and then- in a moment of weakness, confidence, pure unbridled insanity- he grabs a handful of Blake's ass and tugs him closer, pressing the fronts of their bodies into one, one built of hate and need and secrecy.

Blake groans furiously, one hand sneaking around the back of Schofield's head and making a fist of his sandy hair. He pulls as they rock their hips together, breath mingling in the commonality of anger. Scho grunts in turn, the breath releasing into a furious moan as Blake attacks his neck, really attacks it, like he's trying to kill him. He retaliates it in his own way, rolling their hips together and fucking _delighting_ in the way it makes Blake shudder. It's not about making Blake feel good, though that's a side effect he doesn't protest.

It's about getting this shit _out_. Expressing the anger they're being consumed by, swallowed by, forcing it out through the only avenue that's remotely safe.

Schofield tugs apart the buttons on Blake's trousers, with only a little bit more grace than his counterpart. He has the vantage of age, hands naturally steadied by the numbing effect vibrating rifle barrels diffuse into one's nerves. Will had always had steady hands, broad and deft in the same stroke.

Blake isn't wearing knickers. Schofield assumes they're up drying with the other half-laundered clothes on the line around camp.

  
Whatever, makes his job easier.

He grips Blake's cock with one hand, the brunet already half hard from their clash moments ago. Schofield fucking _drinks_ in the shiver that passes through Blake, the way he has to lean his forehead into the crook of Will's neck for support. His breath shudders out in bits against the expanse of pale skin, goosebumps raising on Schofield's neck and arms as Blake's gritted exhale melts into a quiet, bitter groan.

Schofield strokes him quickly, harshly. There is no respite, no recoherence, he does not give Tom pause for one goddamn moment. Stopping to let Blake rest would mean stopping to think, and that is the last thing Will wants in this moment.

Will repeats the movement, growing in harshness, fury, desire, until he can tell that Blake is so close he's shaking. His counterpart's hips are quaking, twitching, searching for purchase on any part of Schofield's body.

He holds Blake back as he leisurely unbuttons his own trousers, one hand expertly picking apart the buttons holding back his own arousal. Will seems totally put together- and, of course, it's a farce. He wants this as much as Blake, hot and fast and dirty, and Blake seems to realize that. Will's desire is coiling with his anger, and it's blinding him. Blake moves before Schofield can catch it.

Fuck, Schofield forgot how strong this boy is.

He pushes Will back, removing the other man's only spots of purchase on his body. Schofield finds his wrists pinned together in his lap, jerked roughly out of the way as Blake tugs his cock from his pants, his movements jerky with haste.

Schofield flinches and hisses out a groan when Blake pulls their cocks together, stroking in one rough, fast, simple movement that's too much friction for him to bear. Even though Tom had been so close, so vulnerable just a moment ago, he now seems back in control of himself. Even the movement of his hands is smoothing out, causing Will to stifle a shout with his inner wrist.

Blake lets go of his hands and instead pulls Schofield in for a kiss by the hair, muffling another loud noise with his own teeth. It's still fire, but less hate. Will can feel the loathing leeching out of his bones, replaced with a building, taut fire, knotting back on itself, raring to explode.

Blake is feeling it too, he knows it, because the hand in his hair loosens and Tom's breathing picks up.

  
"Tom, Tom, Tom," Will chants breathlessly, his tone warping and bubbling as Blake's hand presses against the slick head of his cock.

"Tom, I-"

"Yeah. Yeah, Scho, I know. I- ffuck, shit, I-"

Blake's chest convulses as he comes, Schofield bucking up into his hand and joining him a moment later. It's five seconds of total bliss, of flesh and carnal gratification and blood running so hot in veins that it seems fit to boil. It's devoid of pain, devoid of worry, no anger or protest even crossing the mind of either soldier.

It ends.

Blake slumps, panting, against Schofield's bare chest. His forehead, adorned with thick brown curls, presses into Will's sternum, and Schofield himself is too exhausted to care, resting his own head against the back of Tom's.

It’s quiet. The sound of the river and the wind in the trees are the only audible whispers of life around them. It's good to be alone, Schofield thinks absently, running a finger up the indent of Blake's spine.

"I wasn't actually that mad at you, y'know," Will says absently, his finger following up to the base of Blake's skull and slipping into his hair. "You were right."

Blake sits up slowly, his chest still heaving ever so slightly. It was like didn’t want to let go of the exertion, like he wanted to be back in that moment again.

"Yeah," he replies, picking his shirt up from its pile on the ground near them.

"I know."

**Author's Note:**

> huegh heres ur slash horndogs
> 
> basically!! this is just a mess. im a messy fucking writer but here we are. i hope you enjoyed!
> 
> comments, as always, appreciated :)


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